


Color Me Thin

by PhaeGay (2lulah)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abstract Art is weird, Alternate Universe - Art School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8994205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2lulah/pseuds/PhaeGay
Summary: Jean is a struggling art student, with a difficult project. Marco is there to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heckthedamn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckthedamn/gifts).



There was something strangely gratifying in watching the brush move over his palette. The light stroke lines from the brushes bristles dragged the pink through into the blue, and the way the brush bent and swirled was calming to Jean. He spun the brush until there was a swirl of colors, which he dabbed onto the brush. 

His brush hit the canvas, and he could feel every little bump as he brought down each stroke: lines of colors gave the canvas depth. 

Jean Kirschstein was an art student at Maria Art Institute, or MAI for short. His focus was in painting, and his specialty was water color. He loved his school, and he was really proud of the work that came out of it. He had just started his last year at MAI, and though he feared the fight for work, he did enjoy the fact he was almost done.

“Hey,” Marco said, carefully setting his pot down on the table beside Jean’s work station, “what are you up to?” 

Marco Bott was also an art student at MAI. He specialized in sculpture, but was currently still getting his core requirements done. The pottery class so far proved to be his favorite. 

“Oh, hey babe.” Jean sighed, as he set down his palette for a moment. “I’m just trying to get this assignment done. Abstract art is such an interesting class, but the assignments are absolutely meaningless. I don’t get what he means by this prompt. It’s just, pointless.” 

Marco and Jean had met in high school. Jean had been Marco’s calculus tutor, and they had hit it off quite well. They started to bond over their mutual love of art, and they spent countless hours doodling and sketching together. Jean looked up to see the first sketch Jean had done of Marco over their dining room table.

Once they had graduated high school, and navigated through telling their parents, who luckily had been most accepting, they decided to move in together during their sophmore year of MAI. Jean still worked as a tutor, and Marco had a little desk job at his father’s business. Flexible hours, the most they could ask for out of any job. 

“Well, what’s the prompt?” Marco straddled over the barstool. 

“He wanted a piece that meant something to us personally. The most important thing in our lives. But how am I supposed to do any of that with abstract art? It’s the first assignment of the year, I just, I want to prove myself to this professor you know? Professor Ackerman is such a huge name and I just want to prove-”

“Relax, Jean. You’re jittering.” Marco grabbed Jean’s hand, which was starting to tremor. “You’re talented. You can do this. Just, think, slowly. What’s the most important thing in your life?”

Jean took in a breath, and closed his eyes. He felt the ridges in Marco’s hand, the dryness of his skin from where he worked the clay, “You need to moisturize.” 

“You need to focus.” Marco said sternly, slipping his fingers between his. 

“You.”

“Me?” 

“You.” Jean confirmed, “You’re the most important thing in my life.”

“That’s very gay of you, Jeanbo.” 

Jean could almost feel the cheshire grin on Marco’s face. He opened his eyes for confirmation, finding his assumption to be correct. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s very gay. Too gay.” Jean hooked his finger under the collar of Marco’s polo, and tugged him in for a kiss. 

“So how am I supposed to come across in this?” Marco asked against Jean’s lips, gesturing with a nod of his head to the painting. 

Jean looked over at the canvas. 

It was only colors, lines and swirls of pinks, blues, and purples. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything really either. 

Jean got up and put the canvas over by the door. He went over to his bag and pulled out a fresh canvas from his bag. 

“Marco, grab that green paint will you? And the fuchsia?”

“Sure? Why?”

“I need you to throw paint at me.”

“What?”

“Look, I’m going to need you to throw paint at me, I need to get fired up here, and I need you to throw paint at me. I know I sound crazy, but the only way this is going to work is to throw paint at me.”

The look on Marco’s face could only be described as fear. He took in a deep breath, and let his brows un-furrow. “We should at least lay down some tarps first.”

Jean beamed. “Good idea. There’s some tarps under the sink, we should probably wrap the couch, too.” 

After a horrible scurry of tarp laying, with the canvas in the middle, Jean took a deep breath. 

They had both stripped to their underwear as to spare their clothes, and Marco shook his head. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

“Dead sure.”

“You get to clean up this mess.”

“Deal.” 

Jean took a small handful of paint in his hand, the fuschia, and threw. It smacked Marco’s arm, and managed to splatter onto the canvas. 

Marco looked at the new “wound,” and growled low. “Oh, you’re getting it now.” A wicked grin spread across his lips, and in seconds their positions switched. Jean took the hit of forest green against his chest, the canvas catching a good fair bit as well. They circled around and around throwing paint at each other, narrowly missing their furniture. 

“If you stain my grandma’s couch, she’ll kill you.”

“You’re the painter, Jean, she’ll blame you. Not to mention it could use a paint job” 

“Shit, you’re right.” 

The white tarp on the ground was no longer white. Their hands were a rainbow of colors, and their chests heaved, thoroughly out of breath. 

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s a mess.” 

“Yes, it’s perfect. It’s us.”

It couldn’t have been more like a Pollack if they had tried. The colors had hit the canvas in every splotch and splatter they could’ve thought possible. Sure, Jean wasn’t sure if the canvas really did mean anything, but it was something they created together, which he hoped could somehow be read through the paint and “painting” itself. 

“Alright, Mr. Pollack, you’re going to lay down with me on this gross tarp and take a rest. You’re still wheezing.” Marco clasped his hand on Jean’s shoulder, kissing his cheek as the opportunity was given to him. 

As they lied down on the tarp, taking up even more paint on their skin than they already had, Marco turned towards Jean. “Am I really the most important thing in your life, Jean?” 

“Of course you are.” Jean stated. “You’ve always been.” Jean took some of the wet paint on his hand and smeared it over Marco’s face. The disgusted yack that Marco made only made him laugh. 

“You know, I’m surprised.” Marco said softly, slowly tangling his legs with Jean’s. “It’s not that I didn’t think I was important to you, I knew I was. But the most important, I… I didn’t realize.” 

“We’ve been dating for three years, I would’ve thought it was a given.” Jean let his hand fall to the small of Marco’s back. “Am I not affectionate enough or-” 

“Nonono!!” Marco interrupted, “It’s not that, really it isn’t. You’re extremely affectionate, it’s just I don’t always think of myself as the most important anything… It’s nice. It’s really nice to know I’m the most important person to you. It’s nice to know the feeling is mutual.” 

“So, I’m the most important to you, too?” 

“Absolutely.” 

Jean grinned, pulling Marco closer to him. He pressed their foreheads together, and slipped his fingers in between Marco’s. “We’re both so filthy right now.” Jean’s fingers smeared a stripe of purple down his nose. 

“I think I know just the thing.” 

They lied together in the bath, Jean rubbed shampoo into Marco’s black hair. “You’re really cute from this angle, you know that?” 

“Aren’t I cute from every angle?” Marco slithered down before tipping his head back to look up at Jean. 

At a glance, no one would’ve noticed. But, Jean never could pull his gaze from Marco. 

"Uh...Marco... Oh god. Marco. How did you get paint up here?”

“Oh god, where?” 

“You have galaxy hair, Marco. You’re every girl’s wet dream right now" Jean was trying very hard not to laugh, but it wasn’t going over well. He was cracking up, and he tucked his face into Marco’s shoulder. Once he caught his breath, he held Marco's face close to his own, foreheads barely brushing together, he gently pecked his forehead.

"Jeez, Jean, you're so inept. You always were, but this is just ridiculous. Can you really not get the paint out of my hair?" Marco bit on his lower lip, a smile tugging at the corners. He was also trying not to laugh, as Jean, too, had paint in his hair. Not that he would say anything though. 

"You're beautiful," Jean said quietly into Marco's ear. Marco shrunk back into Jean's chest, and sighed. Jean fingers moved into Marco’s hair again, trying to break the now hardening paint off of the little hairs, but he had Marco in his arms, nothing really mattered from there. Marco's hand searched and threaded itself into Jean's free hand, feeling the calloused skin in his own once again. 

“Worse comes to worst, we’ll shave our heads.” Jean stated with a chuckle. 

Marco shrugged. “That’s what the drama department’s wigs are for.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 


End file.
